And Should I Turn Away
by DreamFlight
Summary: In that climatic moment upon the stage, what might have happened had Christine not wrenched the mask from the man who haunted her? A story of what if...
1. The Point of No Return

_**And Should I Turn Away…**_

Disclaimer: I do not own Phantom of the Opera or any of the characters, songs, etc. associated with it. I am merely a penniless writer captivated by a story.

The basic premise here is that everyone does their what-if stories based on what happens after Christine rips the mask from the Phantom on stage during _Don Juan Triumphant_. So I've decided to go ahead and write a what-if based on her never exposing the phantom for who he is.

Also, you may notice I've tweaked a few aspects of the Point of No Return scene, rather than lifting it straight from the movie… for example, I've gone ahead and assumed that when the Phantom makes his entrance, its at the end of the opera…

_**Chapter 1: The Point of No Return**_

Christine glanced up towards where she knew Raoul sat so far above her, watching. She closed her eyes for a moment, steeling herself for whatever might come next. So far the night had been going smoothly, almost too smoothly for a production so tainted. Truly the opera was an astounding piece of art – the audience sat nearly breathless in their seats, some nearly shocked at the daring nature of the work. It was near its climax however, and Christine couldn't help but know in her very soul that now was when the Phantom was going to make his move. If she could only know how…

_Past the point of no return_

_No backward glances_

Christine's breathe caught in her throat. Surely it couldn't be? But no, the voice was utterly unmistakable as that of her teacher; it was undoubtedly the voice of the Phantom of the Opera.

_Our games of make believe are at an end_

_Past all thought of if or when_

_No use resisting_

_Abandon thought and let the dream descend _

She could only helplessly watch him approach her. Not a word, not a rose, not a moving shadow in the night, had betrayed his presence to her for weeks. To see him now, so suddenly, so powerfully, as he moved across the stage, was to destroy her will. All thoughts of Raoul, of summertime, were sent spinning like the confetti at the yearly Masquerade Ball, suddenly lost amidst the feelings this man could conjure in her soul with just a fragment of song.

_What raging flash that floods the soul_

_What rich desire unlocks its door_

_What sweet seduction lies before us?_

Christine could feel herself trembling as he neared her. His touch, light and delicate against her, sent trails of fire across her skin where he let his fingers caress her, a terribly mimicry of choreographed touch. For nothing so seductive could be choreographed. Beyond the fear that rose in her throat, Christine could feel other feelings threaten to rise up within her, ones she dared not to name. Her eyes searched the audience desperately, but everyone appeared mesmerized by the daring, dangerous images being played across the stage.

_Past the point of no return_

_The final threshold _

_What warm unspoken secrets will we learn_

_Beyond the point of no return_

Just as suddenly as he had closed in upon her, he was gone from her side. His voice no longer rang in her ears, his last solo lines spilling richly across the stage to envelope her. She cast one terrified glance towards Raoul; why was he not moving to save her from this? But the music played on, and her own words were already upon her tongue, terrifyingly relevant.

_You have brought me to that moment when words run dry _

_To that moment when speech disappears into silence_

_Silence_

Distantly, she found herself missing the warmth of his body standing so close to hers, the strangely evocative touch of his fingers against her body. But this was no time for such terrible thoughts, now she had only to act. To play out her part until this nightmare could be concluded.

_I have come here hardly knowing the reason why_

_In my mind I've already imagined our bodies entwining, defenseless and silent_

_Now I am here with you, no second thoughts, I've decided _

_Decided_

She followed the steps she had learned so carefully, her singing strangely far away from her mind as she began to climb the stairs that framed her half of the stage.

_Past the point of no return _

_No going back now_

_Our passion play has now at last begun_

_Past all thought of right or wrong_

_One final question: how long should we to wait before we're one?_

There was a part of her that wanted to stop singing to laugh at the ridiculousness of this all, or perhaps to cry. Here she was singing of seduction and passion, her eyes riveted to the dark form that was her phantom, her teacher of so many years, and all the while Raoul, her fiancé, was sitting above, watching it unfold. It was disgraceful, or shameful, or… but why was it shameful? At some opportune moment she was to give a sign to him, wasn't she? He could not act before she gave some sign. Bitterly, Christine came to realize that this was all in her own hands.

_When will the blood begin to rise_

_The sleeping bud burst into bloom_

_When will the flames at last consume us_

She found herself once again in his arms. Strange how that kept happening, her thoughts whispered from far away. His hands ran along the sides of her body, his voice terrible and passionate in her ears as they sang together. It was frightening, she found herself thinking, how well their voices matched. It was almost as if they had always been meant to sing together. But then again, she thought bitterly, it was what he had trained her for.

_Past the point of no return_

_The final threshold_

_The bridge has crossed_

_So stand and watch it burn _

_We've past the point of no return_

Part of her wanted to wrench herself from his grasp. Whatever dangerous game he was playing, she was running out of time to save herself from it. But he held on to her as the music changed, its tune strangely familiar to her ears, and she found herself unable to move from this place so close to him.

_Say you'll share with me_

_One love, one lifetime_

Christine wasn't sure if the feeling that suddenly crept up her spine was horror or shame, as his voice whispered borrowed words into her ear. But the words rendered her motionless, frozen amidst his spell once more. She felt herself turning to face him as he loosened his hold upon her waist. Now, surely now was the moment she was meant to give Raoul a signal, a sign that this was their moment to rise up against the phantom, to strike him down forever.

_Keep me, save me, from my solitude_

_Say you'll want me with you here, beside you_

_Anywhere you go let me go too_

But his voice was so sad. He was merely begging for a chance, any chance really. Christine didn't need to look to know that the police were stationed all around the opera hall; that guns were nearly leveled at this man. This man who was pleading with her for… for something. Christine found his eyes locked upon hers and was trapped in his gaze. Was it love in his eyes?

_Christine, that's all I ask of you_

Christine felt her body flow into his arms as he pulled her into the embrace that marked the end of the scene. His face was very near hers, for it was choreographed that Don Juan should appear to be kissing her as the curtain fell, but his lips never touched hers, his eyes instead still searching hers for an answer. Any answer.

She exhaled slowly, suddenly realizing that she was trembling in these arms that held her so tenderly. Her eyes left his only for a moment, flitting for just a moment to his lips, a terrible thrill running through her body as she considered their closeness. But instead of pulling her closer, the arms pushed her away gently, slowly releasing her such that her balance was maintained. All with such tenderness that Christine only wished she had any sort of answer for him.

The very air crashed with the thunder of applause just behind the curtain, but it was the hurried footsteps that echoed through the backstage that intruded into the quiet moment that sat between their eyes. "Christine!" Raoul's voice cried. "Are you… alright?" His voice died upon his lips at the sight of her and the phantom, standing so close, but not touching. She was unharmed, and still present, both things she supposed Raoul had not expected to find.

"Hey now!" A second voice huffed from behind Raoul.

"What's all this?" A third voice joined in, as the two managers jogged up behind Raoul, whipping handkerchiefs out to mop sweating foreheads. "You are not supposed to be on stage!" An accusing finger pointed at the phantom.

"Who are you in any case?" Demanded Firmin. "We're not paying you, are we? I'd hope I could recognize those who are under our employ." A crowd of police came stumbling down the narrow hall behind the stage at that moment, guns already raised to the strange masked man.

Christine felt a slight movement from the phantom, before she heard her voice tumbling out. "He's… a friend of mine."

Four sets of eyes suddenly focused upon her in utter shock. Silently she cursed herself. Why on earth had she said anything? It wasn't her job to protect the phantom. Quite the opposite in fact. "I…" Christine fumbled for words, for anything that could possibly fix this mess. "Dear monsieurs," she began so softly, her eyes cast down demurely, "You remember that I had a teacher?" She gestured ever so slightly towards the phantom, who appeared to have been shocked into stillness. "This is he." She struggled to ignore Raoul's gaping mouth, or shocked eyes.

"And your name, sir?" Andre inquired, his voice coloured more with intrigue than anger as the applause continued on behind the heavy velvet curtain.

There was a long pause, during which Christine was terrified to lift her head. For should she lift her gaze she would be affronted by the fact that she was now, in a way, sheltering the man she had promised to Raoul, to her love, that she would help to bring down.

"Erik." The single syllable cut the air. Christine felt her head jerk up involuntarily. Somehow she had never dreamt that the phantom actually had a name. Obviously he must have… or perhaps this was just another lie. A man's name rather than a ghost's title simply because at the moment it served him better to be a man than an angel or a ghost. There was something in his eyes, however, a strangely far away look, which suggested to Christine that perhaps this name was the truth of it. After all, the phantom was not truly a phantom, but a man.

"Erik, is it?" Andre picked up, missing the sudden weight of the name. "So we have you to thank for our lovely Miss Daae." He turned to Firmin and smiled – all smiles for everyone. "Dear gentlemen," he began suddenly, realizing the police still had their guns trained upon the masked man above, "I do believe we've solved our mysterious performer's identity, no need to keep weapons trained upon him!"

"Andre," Firmin cut in, "Don't you believe we should be slightly cautious?" His expression looked mildly pained to Christine.

"Firmin!" Andre cut in, "Can you not hear the crowd out there? They are going simply mad for these two… and the opera ghost's opera, oddly enough." The promise of money was already bright in the man's eyes. "And if you haven't noticed, there have been no tricks on the part of our ghost tonight!"

"Because we followed his instructions to a tee." Replied Firmin moodily. "How can you suggest that we've in any way won?" Christine shifted uneasily, still high above the unfolding scene. She glanced at the phantom… Erik, she supposed, finding it suddenly odd to have a very human name to attach to him. He was completely still, amusement flickering in his eyes as he watched the scene below.

"Sirs!" Raoul suddenly cut in, haste in his voice. "Don't you find it unsettling that a strange masked man has appeared upon our stage, on the same night as the phantom does not attack? Does it not make you wonder that this man has no last name?"

"I have a last name." Christine watched the phantom's… Erik's eyes narrow with masked hatred. "Durant. Erik Durant."

"You see, my boy?" Andre piped in warmly. "Nothing to worry about at all. Quite evidently Christine mentioned her staring role to her tutor, who must have had a word with Piangi, who agreed to allow such exceptional talent the opportunity to shine upon our stage." He was nodding now, finding his story a satisfactory explanation. "Isn't that right, Miss Daae?" He cast his gaze upwards to Christine.

She felt a lump grow in her throat as she looked between Andre's beaming face and Raoul's scowling glare. She lifted her eyes to the man in question, who was staring at her with an oddly bemused expression, as if he couldn't quite figure out what she was playing at. It wasn't a murderous gaze in any case. "That's exactly right, monsieur." She confirmed, watching the anger in Raoul's eyes blaze up at her.

"Come now, dear," began Firmin, "You should come down from there in any case." He cast a sideways glance at the masked man beside her. "You too, Monsieur Durant. It is rather difficult to talk business at such varied heights."

"Business!" Raoul's enraged voice was little more than a hiss. "You intend to do business with… with that?" Christine froze as Raoul pointed his finger at Erik who was even now coolly offering her his hand to help her down. She caught her own hand back, which had already nearly accepted it of its own accord. No, she scolded herself, that would just foolishly invite danger. But it was more the guilt she felt from Raoul's searing gaze than reason or fear motivating her actions.

"Dear boy," Firmin began, clearly aghast. "The man was acting! While I admit his gestures in regards to Miss Daae were perhaps… daring… I don't believe it condemns your eternal wrath!"

"But he's…" Christine found herself at Raoul's side at that very moment, and ever so gently placed a finger against his lips, trapping the secret of Eric's true identity upon his tongue.

"My teacher." Christine said ever so softly, her eyes pleading and begging with Raoul to understand. "You need not worry," she whispered softly, "My love is yours, and yours alone." She could feel the phantom, or perhaps it was the man, Erik, who flinched behind her, as though the words burned.

Raoul lifted his eyes from hers, the rage cooling to a simmer. "If you hire such a man, you shall also need a new patron." Grabbing Christine's hand he began to tread away from the two startled managers, pulling her along with him. She understood his anger, in many ways she sympathized with it. She had betrayed him, he who had promised her safety and a life within the light. She allowed herself only a single glance behind. The phantom, his mask still in place and his stance flawless, stared after her, his eyes betraying nothing, a slight smirk gracing his lips.


	2. Note by note

_**And Should I Turn Away…**_

Disclaimer: I do not own Phantom of the Opera or any of the characters, songs, etc. associated with it. I am merely a penniless writer captivated by a story.

I'm astounded by how many positive reviews I've had from this story already! So here's the next installment – and thank you so much to reviewers and anyone who's added this story to their favs or alerts!

_**Chapter 2: Note by note**_

_Raoul lifted his eyes from hers, the rage cooled to a simmer. "If you hire such a man, you shall also need a new patron." Grabbing Christine's hand he began to tread away from the two startled managers, pulling her along with him. She understood his anger, in many ways she sympathized with it. It was she who had betrayed him. She allowed herself a single glance behind. The phantom, his mask still in place, his stance flawless, stared after her, his eyes betraying nothing, a slight smirk gracing his lips. _

Raoul turned a corner backstage rather suddenly, sending Christine slightly off balance. She could feel herself wobble slightly, and despite all her skill as a dancer couldn't help but begin to fall. "Christine." She heard Raoul murmur softly into her hair, his arms wrapped securely around her waist, gently setting her back onto her feet. His hands felt warm against her waist, but she couldn't help but notice with disappointment the fact that his fingertips drew no fire across her skin.

She heard him exhale slowly as he pulled away from her. "Christine," he said softly, his eyes looking at her with such confusion, "I just don't understand why. Why are you sheltering him after all that has happened? Why… what was so wrong with our plan?"

Christine looked at Raoul with wide eyes. "It just didn't… feel right." She said softly. "I couldn't… not when he was he was looking at me like that."

"Like what, Christine?" Raoul gasped, catching hold of her hands and pulling her closer to him, his eyes suggesting that the Phantom had looked at her with murder or threat in his eyes. Christine cast her eyes downward, her voice momentarily lost. "Please, Christine, " Raoul urged, his voice soft and tender, "I must know if he's threatened you in some way."

Christine gasped softly, and turned her face further away from Raoul. "Like he was so sad." She said in a voice so soft it was nearly a whisper. "Like he was so lost and alone..."

"You feel compassion for that monster?" Raoul interrupted her, his voice raised in slight horror. He placed a hand gently against her chin, forcing her to meet his eyes. "Compassion is a noble thing, Christine," he said softly, "But that monster is not worth yours. There's no good in him."

Christine fought back tears. How could she explain to Raoul that nothing that was purely evil could sing as the Phantom did? "But for years, Raoul, for years, he was all I had. He felt compassion for a lonely, broken young girl, and even if it was all a lie, he's helped me." The tears were threatening to fall from her eyes now, catching in her eye lashes and blurring her vision. "He was my friend."

Raoul shook his head, not comprehending the mass of emotions that threatened to overwhelm her. "Then forget the plan if it will hurt you so much. But come away with me. Leave this place and all its shadows and fears." He looked at her with such concern in his eyes. "Come away with me and I promise to always keep you safe from harm. I promise you will never want for anything. Just come with me, and forget this place."

Christine looked at him with confusion written upon her features. "Leave?" She echoed softly. "Leave the opera?" The mass of emotions within her now felt about ready to explode. "You want me… to give up singing?" The question was terribly hesitant upon her lips. Surely he didn't mean that. To give up her one and only dream, to leave Madame Giry and Meg, and this opera house that despite everything was her home, had been her only home since her father had died; to give up all that was asking a lot, wasn't it?

"Give up singing?" Raoul said gently, his voice coloured with an amused tone. "Christine, I would no more try to silence a songbird than ask you to give up singing. I just mean for you to leave the opera. You don't need a stage to sing after all."

Christine felt her throat constrict painfully. "Now?" She whispered hoarsely.

"Yes Christine, this very moment. We can leave and you can begin a new life, one far away from the darkness and the terror of this one. A life in the sunshine." His voice was urgent, but held a warmth that Christine could not deny. "It will be just like it used to be," he continued, his hands moving to her shoulders as if to guide her, "I'll take you to the sea, and make sure you don't lose your scarf. And I'll read you stories, just as I once did…"

"Oh Raoul," Christine said suddenly, interrupting the flood that was his words, "It wouldn't be the same at all." Her voice was stronger now, filled with dismay, "We've grown up. We can't play at being children."

Raoul shook his head quickly, "And I don't mean we should, little Lotte. I just mean that we would be together, and things would all be lovely again."

"But I've finally become the lead soprano." Christine heard the words spill from her mouth, the product of so many years of the petty rivalries that characterized life in an opera company. She widened her eyes suddenly, her hand softly covering her mouth in surprise.

Raoul stared at her with disbelief written across his features. "You'd rather… stay here," and the words were laced with horror, "Then be with me?" But he didn't wait for an answer to fall from Christine's lips, instead pushing her gently from him and walking away from her.

"Raoul!" She cried suddenly as he began to turn another corner. "Where are you going?" Despair tainted her words, causing her to bite her lip upon hearing her voice. She sounded so very pitiful, but it was her own fault he was leaving. She was the one who couldn't make up her mind. No reply met her ears as he disappeared around the bend.

"Oh Raoul…" she murmured softly, her voice soft, weighed down by the confusion she felt. Her mind was a disasterous swirl of emotions, and she suddenly felt terribly tired. In the distance she could still hear voices, and she moved closer to them as if in a trance, pulled by an unfamiliar curiosity.

"Andre," one voice said firmly, "Are you absolutely sure this was a good idea?"

"Firmin, my dear friend," the second replied, "The crowd out there simply adored the performance, there's a chance we might actually make some money off this venture for the first time since we took it on. How could it not be a good idea?" There was a sudden silence. "Firmin, something of grave import has just dawned upon my mind." The silence stretched longer. "At the Masquerade Ball, did the Opera Ghost not… refer to himself as Miss Daae's teacher?"

There was a very pregnant pause during which Christine felt her breathe catch in her throat. There was a soft cough, followed by Firmin's voice. "It would certainly explain the fellow's keen interest in the idea of us commissioning the opera ghost to write us operas in return for the usual salary."

Another long silence followed the manager's bitterly amused remark. "What's that now?" Firmin's voice cut in tiredly.

"A note, of course." Andre replied, in a similarily tired tone. "Dear Management, It is with the utmost pleasure I accept your proposal to pen future operas in return for my modest salary. I only regret to inform you that I will be unable to attend daily rehearsals for them." A pause followed. "It's signed twice."

"I noticed." Firmin's voice added drily. "Both O. G. and E. D."

Christine felt frozen where she stood behind the edge of the heavy stage curtain. Why on earth would the Phantom give himself away so? And why, why had the managers let themselves be so easily manipulated?

"Well," Andre's voice said uncertainly, "Should we call the police back in then?"

"No." Firmin's voice was strangely firm. "At least if he's on stage we can see the devil. And there's little chance that he would sabotage his own operas. No Andre, I believe this may be the only solution we have available to us. It is just unfortunate we cannot truly count it as a win."

"Except that it is us who will be earning the profit of it." Andre added confidently.

"Except that we're now paying the Opera Ghost two salaries." Firmin added moodily.

Christine heard the two men sigh heavily, apparently neither entirely satisfied by their new business arrangement. At the sound of their footsteps, Christine pressed herself more tightly behind the curtain. The last thing she needed was to be discovered eavesdropping. Though this latest piece of information would likely become the opera company's wildest gossip yet; the Phantom himself to move across the stage as a permanent engagement, his music to fill the great hall. Christine felt her blood flow a little faster through her veins at the thought of his words spilling from her mouth.

She moved quietly through the halls of the opera house. Exhaustion was rapidly sinking in and her mind was so overwhelmed with emotion that her thoughts came at her slowly. She pulled open the door to the sleeping quarters softly, afraid of waking up the other girls. Bright light and laughter met her senses. She need not have worried; after all, it was the opening night of what was possibly the company's most successful opera yet, and the performers were still flushed with excitement, and not a inconspicuous amount of alcohol.

"Christine!" cried one of the girls. "Who was that man who sang with you on stage?"

"Christine! There you are!" cried Meg. "I went to look for you in the chapel, but you weren't there… where have you been?"

"Probably off with the mysterious new leading man!" giggled one of the other girls.

Christine shook her head. "I was with Raoul." The chorus of ohhs and ahhs nearly drove her to frustration. "Stop it." She said softly. "We were arguing."

"Was it about the new singer?" The first girl asked in a hushed voice.

Christine sighed; was there any point it making this more complicated than it had to be? "Yes," she murmured softly, "It was about him."

Another chorus of ohhs and ahhs rose up around her. "So do you know his name?" Insisted several girls, their eyes alight with curiosity.

Christine nodded dully. "Eric Durant." She said in a tired tone. She turned to Meg, "I'm exhausted." She said softly. "If Maman wonders, I have gone to my dressing room to sleep. I just don't think I can bear this gossiping in this state."

Meg nodded sympathetically, murmuring something about men and love and having to work at relationships as she walked Christine down the hall. "Sleep well, Christine." Meg said softly, her eyes smiling at her friend. "Your singing tonight was like nothing I have ever heard."

Christine smiled and closed the door behind her softly. "You'll hear far more of that if he continues to compose the operas." She whispered softly into the soft darkness of the room. She moved quietly towards the chaise lounge she had intended to sleep upon. Quite suddenly she stopped in her tracks. "Raoul." She whispered softly into the darkness, suddenly moving in the opposite direction, towards the table before the mirror.

With deft hands she lit a candle in the darkness, sitting down delicately and pulling out a sheet of paper and some ink from a small drawer. Writing was not her strong point, but she knew how, of course. One couldn't very well learn to sing without being able to read the words to the song, and writing was merely incidental to that. She took a deep breathe, trying to compose her jumbled thoughts into anything coherent.

"Dearest Raoul," She murmured as she wrote, "It pains me to be so estranged from you. I did not mean what I said earlier – there is nothing in this world as important to me as your love. You must forgive me, I have been brought up in an opera and can no more forget the ambitions of my youth than I can forget those joyous moments I once spent with you." Christine leaned back in her chair, nibbling at the pen she held.

"But I feel like I am not yet ready to leave the opera." She sighed deeply. "There is little in the world that brings me as much joy as music does, and I feel that to leave now, when I stand on the brink of all my dreams, would be to deny myself. I only fear that if I should leave now I would spend the rest of my life unable to fully give myself to you, always wondering what may have happened had I stayed just a little longer." She leaned back again, a small sigh of frustration escaping her lips.

"So I beg of you to understand. I wish only to finish out the remainder of this season, and then I am sure I shall be ready to leave with you. Ready to give my love to you until death do us part. With love, Christine." She signed her name with slight flourish. The note was likely the closest she was going to come to expressing herself truly. With reverence, Christine smoothed the note. She would send it out tomorrow morning; it would be the first thing she would do upon wakening. But now she needed to sleep.

In her dream, she saw the secret door behind the full-length mirror open, that shadowy figure she would know anywhere stepping smoothly through. In her dream, he moved across the floor silently, pausing only at her note. He stood there for a long moment, as if reading it. A bitter smile crossed his features as he lifted it gently. The dim light of the dying candle she had forgotten to blow out softened the handsome features of the unmasked half of his face as he turned to gaze upon her for a long moment. She watched him place a single long stem rose where the note had rested. He must then have blown out the candle, for it very suddenly went dark.

Christine opened her eyes. The bright light of morning streamed in through a tiny casement window to greet her. She sat up slowly and stretched. The chaise hadn't been terribly comfortable, but she had to admit that the sleep had done her good. Everything seemed brighter now in the morning light, with a decent night's rest behind her. Her gaze fluttered over to where her note lay…

She gasped. The note was gone, replaced with a red rose. Her hand rose to her mouth in an expression of shock. The phantom… no, she scolded herself, Erik. Erik had stolen her note. To call him the phantom was to give him power over her mind. Power which was not his to own. But why would he steal the note? Christine shook her head, she suddenly seemed to have nothing but questions.

For a brief moment she was certain she heard a familiar voice in the hall. Rising swiftly, still dressed in last night's costume, Christine rushed to the door. Far down the hall to the left she could see the form of a man disappearing behind a corner. A look of determination on her face, Christine hurried down the hall, only to find herself faced with a door.

"But it's not safe!" She heard Raoul's voice implore. "You can't really mean to put Christine upon the stage with a murderer!"

"Dear Viscount!" Frimin's voice rose up. "Do you truly think it is that simple?" There was a pause as the manager explained how one of the stagehands had only that morning discovered that the main chandelier in the theatre had been weakened somehow such that it could have been dropped upon the audience. "The entire theatre could have gone up in flames!"

Christine gasped. Truly Erik hadn't intended to go so far? She closed her eyes, suddenly fighting off a wave of nausea. How different things might have gone last night!

"All the more reason to send the police after him!" Raoul cried, frustration apparent in his tone.

Christine heard Andre sigh heavily. "We've decided that it would be a better course of action to keep the opera ghost within our sight. After all, he is a man. He is unlikely to sabotage his own operas, and while he is on stage, at least we can see him and need not worry about where else he may be. Not to mention," his tone increased in brightness, "we've already sold out the next four performances!"

"Besides," Christine heard Firmin add, "So long as both he and Miss Daae are on stage, he cannot exactly kidnap or harm her, not without your eyes upon him." There was a pause. "Provided of course that you are the continuing patron. It may be difficult in any other case to find you a seat."

"Are you threatening me?" Raoul's voice was mildly shrill. "You intend to put my fiancé on stage with a murderer, just so you can sell a few more seats, and then expect me not to be there in case anything goes wrong?"

"No one is threatening anything," Andre cut in smoothly. "Come now," Christine jumped as footsteps sounded directly behind the door, "We should at least inform Miss Daae of these new events." Christine very suddenly found herself face to face with the three men. "And here she is!" Andre beamed. "I'm assuming we've been spared explaining the details then?"

"You've hired the Phantom." Christine said quietly, her eyes downcast, ashamed at being caught eavesdropping.

"Indeed." Andre replied. "And we have scheduled another performance tonight. Sold out seats for you, our rising star!"

"Tonight?" Christine echoed, suddenly turning pale. She had forgotten that after such a brilliant reception Erik's play was likely to be performed again. Which would mean singing those darkly seductive words with him again. This would mean that those hands would once again be upon her, all the while his voice merging with her own.

"Of course," Andre replied jovially. "You had decided to finish the season with us at least, hadn't you?"

It was then that Christine caught sight of her note in Raoul's hands. "My note." She whispered softly.

"Gentlemen," Raoul interrupted, "My fiancé is obviously in shock. You cannot expect her to perform on stage again with…"

"No." She said softly. "I will do it." She looked only at the managers, Andre and Firmin, who nodded and smiled at her approvingly. She turned to Raoul, who was frowning at her slightly, his expression worried. "I said I wanted to finish the season."


	3. Anything at All

_**And Should I Turn Away…**_

Disclaimer: I do not own Phantom of the Opera or any of the characters, songs, etc. associated with it. I am merely a penniless writer captivated by a story.

Eeep! I must beg forgiveness for my lack of updating. I have a hell of semester right now, and its severely restricted my time for writing. For anyone who's still keeping up with this story, take heart! I do intend to finish it. Eventually. :P

_**Chapter 3: Anything At All**_

"_No." She said softly. "I will do it." She looked only at the managers, Andre and Firmin, who nodded and smiled at her approvingly. She turned to Raoul, who was frowning at her slightly, his expression worried. "I said I wanted to finish the season."_

It was very quiet backstage before the performance. The whispers of the rest of the company echoed about Christine's head, making her wonder for the hundredth time that day just what she had done by covering for the man who called himself a phantom. Was it only yesterday that she had been begging Raoul to let her avoid the stage? Had it only taken twenty-four hours to go from pure dread of this opera to steely determination to go through with it?

Christine felt oddly bewildered. Was she really so fickle? So changeable? Or was it just that the situation had changed so dramatically? Outwardly, she composed herself. Her cue for the opening scene was only moments away, and there was no room for mistakes, not in this.

The final scene drew near far too quickly for Christine. Suddenly she was alone upon the stage, her heartbeat pounding in her ears, as she strained to hear the voice of her teacher. Tonight there would be no mishap with Piangi, he was to gracefully yield the stage to the newcomer (not that he had been particularly pleased with the arrangement once informed of it). Then, suddenly, that too familiar voice surrounded her.

_Past the point of no return_

_No backward glances_

_Our games of make believe are at an end_

_Past all thought of if or when_

_No use resisting _

_Abandon thought and let the dream descend _

Christine felt her heart fluttering cruelly in her chest. Dimly she knew she shouldn't feel anything for this man, aside from perhaps disgust or anger, but this was simply not how it was. He was her teacher, an artistic genius whose talent she could not deny. Why else would his voice, these words he'd written, raise her skin into gooseflesh and cause her heart to flutter?

Unless, of course, what she felt was more than mere admiration or respect.

But such thoughts were thrust aside by the passion of her work, the power of the words and music. She sang brilliantly; this opera demanded and deserved that much of her. But something was off, she sensed. There was still an inexplicable thrill to the music, but something was missing, or gone. She cast her gaze to the dark man who ascended the staircase across from her, the question in her eyes only adding to the power of the words she sang.

_When will the blood begin to rise_

_The sleeping bud burst into bloom_

_When will the flames at last consume us_

She stepped ever closer to Eric, suddenly realizing that there was a distance to him tonight. The music went on, and the words poured forth. His body so close to hers that she could feel the warmth of his breath upon her ear, the pressure of his chest against her spine. And there was power, and there was passion. And through it all he seemed to be only half there.

_Past the point of no return_

_The final threshold_

_The bridge has crossed_

_So stand and watch it burn _

_We've past the point of no return_

Christine gazed at him in a mix of hope and dismay as the music died away. She waited patiently for the next chords to come through, but instead the curtain fell to applause only slightly less thunderous than those that had come the night before.

She had meant to ask why he had delivered her letter. She had meant to demand who he thought he was to walk into her room at night. But he left her side so suddenly, breaking away silently, rapidly descending to stage level. Her mouth was already open to ask, but instead of any of her pre-planned questions she heard herself say something astonishing. "Why didn't you sing the last part?" She whispered, unconsciously flinching at the hurt tone in her voice.

He froze, lifting his head until his gaze met hers. "We were acting." He said curtly. "The last part isn't part of the opera." His gaze was cold and unyielding as he turned and melted into the shadows, leaving Christine standing alone in shock.

* * *

Christine sat numbly upon her bed in the quarters she shared with the other girls. Andre and Firmin, positively glowing after the night's performance, had already promised her a room all her own as of tomorrow night. She was the new diva; irreplaceable, a jewel in the crown that was Europe's opera houses, a feather in the still-new owner's hats. An involuntary shiver ran down her spine. From her experiences of being alone in rooms, and the actual lack of privacy they afforded, she wasn't entirely sure she wanted to leave the crowded dormitories, with its safety of over a dozen dozing girls.

Raoul had rushed to her side after the performance. Perhaps he had thought that he would have to defend her against Eric's advances, or perhaps that he'd have to go chasing into the catacombs to reclaim her, should he arrive just a moment too soon. Instead he had found her alone, her eyes strangely empty of emotion. It was that emptiness that Christine now struggled to come to terms with.

How had he been so cold? She found herself wondering again. How could he flip from one extreme to another over the course of twenty-four hours? It was not without apprehension that Christine found herself dwelling so terribly upon Eric, when all good sense suggested she should be dreaming only of Raoul. Good, kind, safe Raoul. Yet that thought was not without irony. Raoul's actions of late; his jealousy, distrust, and tendency to belittle all that she loved were wearing upon her nerves. Surely Raoul loved her. But she couldn't help but wonder if he loved her for who she was, or rather, who he dreamed she could be.

Christine let out a quiet sigh, unfolding herself into a prone position on the narrow little cot she had slept in for nearly the past decade of her life. As far as she could tell, both the men who claimed to love her seemed to love more the idea of her rather than the reality.

It was far from a comforting thought.

For what would happen when she let them down? For inevitably she would have to let one of them down, or even both, she thought despondently. She felt so very weak in that moment; drowned in the expectations of men who seemed so much greater than she was. Huddling under the covers, Christine finally drifted into sleep feeling very small.

* * *

The days fell into a dreadful monotony, as far as Christine was concerned. She had few requests, and no demands for luxuries or special treatment, making her perhaps the calmest and most docile diva to ever grace the Parisian stages. She instead learned her lines dutifully, worked as hard as she ever had as a simple ballet rat, and teetered meaninglessly between the requests of Andre and Firmin and the small demands of Raoul.

As the performance of Eric's opera was booked for weeks in advance, there was little to do but perfect the notes she already felt were etched upon her soul. Little bits of things to keep her in practice: small pieces and solos to appease the audiences on those few nights they didn't perform the grand operas. By day Eric was hidden away to the darkest depths, hard at work at the opera he had coerced the managers into commissioning him to write. He showed himself only for the briefest of moments before and after his turn upon the stage, offering no words to Christine beyond those he sang.

Nearly every night Christine would find herself battling a growing emptiness within her in the darkness of her newly solitary confines. If Eric could say but a word to her – any honest communication… she what? What then? Secretly she was hoping for a return of her teacher. A word of praise, or a criticism at the least. Anything to salvage her world from the off-kilter existence it had taken on.

Despite luncheons with Raoul, which should have been the light of her days, Christine discovered that she was living for her nights. Those brief moments when the passion of the opera and those devilishly tempting words would dance within her soul and fill her with emotion. Because when she wasn't singing, she wasn't feeling anything at all.


	4. Bandits

_**And Should I Turn Away…**_

Disclaimer: I do not own Phantom of the Opera or any of the characters, songs, etc. associated with it. I am merely a penniless writer captivated by a story.

Yay for reading week! It means I have time for an update, or perhaps two? I can hope. In this chapter I mention an opera entitled "I Masnadieri" by Verdi. For a synopsis, check out this website: http://opera dot stanford dot edu/Verdi/Masnadieri/synopsis dot html

**_Chapter 4: Bandits _**

_Despite luncheons with Raoul, which should have been the light of her days, Christine discovered that she was living for her nights. Those brief moments when the passion of the opera and those devilishly tempting words would dance within her soul and fill her with emotion. Because when she wasn't singing, she wasn't feeling anything at all. _

Christine's steps were soft and unsure as she approached the manager's office. Emotionally she was a wreck, and the lack of new material to work with (a dangerous thing when the run of Eric's opera was scheduled to end in just another few weeks) was grating on her nerves. At least if she had new music to throw herself into she might find some relief from the increasingly frustrating Raoul, and the memory - the very physical memory – of Eric's fingertips running across her waist, refreshed with every evening's performance as it was.

She paused before the heavy wooden door, set back slightly by the fact that it was closed. Andre and Firmin maintained that their door was always open for fresh ideas and opinions (on the off-chance that one such idea might increase profits). Christine bit her lip gently as she nervously raised her pale hand to rap upon the door. Only the softened rumble of a voice caused her to halt her movement in mid-air.

"I'll not perform in a comedy." The voice said firmly, as inflexible as usual. Christine felt her breath catch in her throat. There was no mistaking Eric's inflexion or the hardness of his tone. The very corner of her lips twitched slightly at the realization that the lack of new music to learn was likely because the managers could not find anything that Eric would perform in.

"You're _inability_ to perform a role without a mask," Andre's voice cut in icily, "Rather limits our options."

"Please, gentlemen," Eric began in a mocking tone, "If you would only cease to waste my time I could continue my work on the opera you've commissioned of me."

"And yet we pay you to sing as well." Firmin added dryly, the annoyance in his voice only thinly masked. There was a loud rustling of papers, and the Christine could just imagine the unhappy faces of the managers as they found themselves once again manipulated by the Opera Ghost. "What about this one?" Firmin's voice came finally. "The lead male plays the part of a bandit leader – surely a mask would not be so out of place."

There was a creaking of floorboards: Christine could only imagine that Andre had stepped over to Firmin's side to peer at the work in question. "I Masnadieri?" she heard his voice echo awkwardly, stumbling slightly over the Italian as only a Frenchman used to business deals rather than art could.

She heard Eric sniff. "Verdi?" His voice came dryly. She remembered then his mild dislike of Verdi's compositions. Nothing compared to his dislike of some composers, but there nonetheless.

"It is that or we refrain from paying you for a job you do not perform." Firmin's words were cold and succinct.

"I don't much like the ending." She heard Eric say lazily. "I'm assuming you intend to cast Christine as Amalia?"

"That was the intention." Firmin replied, still coldly, evidently furious at the lack of respect accorded to him by Eric.

"You and Christine do have such marvelous chemistry." Andre added. "I'm fairly certain that we could simply put the two of you on stage singing nursery rhymes and people would flock to see it." Christine would have laughed at the expression she could imagine on Firmin's face at Andre revealing all their cards, yet the deep blush that had crept across her face stilled her mirth. What Andre said was true, undoubtedly. And if it was so very visible to the audiences, it certainly did go far in explaining Raoul's overwhelming presence in her life at the moment. She breathed a small sigh, this attempt at clearing her mind of the turmoil Eric's existence was causing in her was having quite the opposite effect.

"Very well." She heard Eric say with slight resignation. "I suppose the other members of the cast will need the time to simply learn their lines."

"Of course." Andre replied jovially. "And we shall be seeing you at the rehearsals." Christine's jaw dropped at Andre's audacity. There been no question in Eric's attendance, he had simply demanded it.

"You waste time I could be working on your opera." Eric's voice came from just beyond the door, strained for civility.

"If you are to perform," Firmin began, "We expect you to perform well. And if you don't perform…" He let the sentence dangle; a hanging threat. Christine's astonishment knew no bounds. The managers were treading a fine line along Eric's ferocious temper.

"I'll attend." She heard Eric's voice, calm though she could sense the simmering anger beneath his words. "I'll be needed to correct the blocking in any case." Christine felt the corner of her lips twitch again, itching to smile. Not only had Eric contained his temper, he had made Firmin's threat sound as inconsequential as it truly was.

The door opened a crack, and Christine hastily stepped back, flattening herself against the wall several feet away from the door. She could see Eric's hand upon the inner doorknob and the mere sight of those hands… those hands who's touch tortured her every waking moment, stilled her breath.

"What is your new opera called?" Andre asked suddenly.

Christine watched the knuckles of the already pale hand whiten. "The Phantom of the Opera." She heard Eric's voice murmur, ever so low.

"Ah, autobiographical then?" Andre's voice exclaimed, "Excellent, excellent. Can't wait for it."

Christine heard Eric's soft snort, and watched in mild horror as he strode out of the door, slamming it behind him before stalking down the hallway in the direction opposite to which she stood. For a moment she watched him stride purposefully down the hallway, his dark cloak moving like a thick shadow behind him. A heavy feeling settled over her heart. She had been dying to talk to him, her heart begging for a single kind, or even critical, word. Wasn't this perhaps her best chance?

Without another thought Christine found herself running after him, her footsteps nearly silent in her soft ballet slippers. She slowed a step behind him and reached a hand out tentatively to tap his shoulder. The merest second before her fingers could touch, he spun around, his eyes flashing angrily and then melting into surprise. Christine pulled her fingers back - fingers she was terrified to notice were trembling.

"Christine?" His voice was surprisingly soft to her ears. She wasn't surprised that it sounded strange in her ears, seeing as how she'd only heard him sing for over two weeks now. "What do you want?" His eyes were hardening now, though Christine hardly knew into what emotion he was retreating.

"To talk to you!" She heard herself exclaim. Frustration tinged her voice and she found herself widening her eyes in surprise. "I miss you." She said more softly, though no less surprisingly.

"You see me every night." He replied, his voice seeming somewhat husky to her ears, filling her with a rising sense of something perhaps akin to terror, or maybe desire, if she let herself imagine such things.

"I mean I miss talking to you." She replied lamely. "I miss my teacher, and my friend." Christine found herself at a loss. The honesty in her voice surely betrayed the fact that these were no lines she had rehearsed. They were being born straight out of the mire her emotions had become in the past weeks, leaping from her tongue before she could think better of them.

She watched his eyes widen. "Friend?" He replied softly. His eyes were intent upon her, bright but guarded, hope flickering faintly into life. "I wasn't sure you counted me among your friends."

Christine frowned. "Why ever not? Since my first days here you were the person I confided everything in. You recognized something of worth in me, and you were the one who taught me and kept me from forgetting everything my father taught me to love."

"And Raoul?" He prompted, his voice on edge.

"What about Raoul?" She exclaimed, frustration again colouring her words. "What does Raoul have to do with you being my friend?" She demanded. "What does Raoul have to do with anything at all?" She stepped back, a hand raised softly in front of her voice in surprise at her outburst. She knew very well that it was her emotional turmoil that had brought her to it, and she winced at the realization that she had even managed to insert a sneer into Raoul's name in her frustration. She hung her head slightly; it was unfair of her to take her frustration and confusion out on Raoul, even if only in thought.

When she finally managed a peek up at Eric, for he had not said a word in response to her outburst, he was looking at her quite seriously. He cleared his throat softly, his lips parting silently for a brief moment before something like resolve spread across his features. "Perhaps we should resume your singing lessons then?" He offered. "Now that you are the undisputed diva, we can actually make use of the stage and perfect the acoustics."

Christine felt her lips spread into the first genuine smile in weeks. "I would love that." She replied softly, her eyes gazing up into Eric's. For a moment she saw the corner of his mouth turn up into the possibility of a smile, the closest she had seen him come to one.


	5. Lessons Learned

_**And Should I Turn Away…**_

Disclaimer: I do not own Phantom of the Opera or any of the characters, songs, etc. associated with it. I am merely a penniless writer captivated by a story.

Hey everyone! A quick thank you to everyone who pointed out my mis-spelling of Erik's name. The truth is that it had been so long since my last update that I forget whether it was with a "c" or a "k", and the "c" just came naturally. I'll make sure I keep an eye on that in the future. Sorry to anyone who was confused by this!

_**Chapter 5: Lessons Learned**_

_When she finally managed a peek up at Erik, for he had not said a word in response to her outburst, he was looking at her quite seriously. He cleared his throat softly, his lips parting silently for a brief moment before something like resolve spread across his features. "Perhaps we should resume your singing lessons then?" He offered. "Now that you are the undisputed diva, we can actually make use of the stage and perfect the acoustics."_

_Christine felt her lips spread into the first genuine smile in weeks. "I would love that." She replied softly, her eyes gazing up into Erik's. For a moment she saw the corner of his mouth turn up into the possibility of a smile, the closest she had seen him come to one._

For a week or two every eye in the opera house was drawn to the masked man who was suddenly very much in their midst. Andre and Firmin stood firm on their decision to make Erik attend the rehearsals for the new opera, and Erik took that decision and twisted it to his own ends. The first few rehearsals were flighty affairs, with Erik glowering out from the shadows at whoever was working on choreography or staging, and the chorus girls casting strange and flustered glances back at his shadowy figure.

For it had finally dawned upon the entire cast that Erik Durant was in fact the opera ghost, the phantom who had haunted their productions and had, in no uncertain terms, caused the death of at least one man. No one said it out loud of course. The harsh glances from Andre and Firmin, two men who were normally more bumbling than dictatorial, assured the cast that their decision to include the phantom among them was their decision. In hushed murmurs the cast agreed that their managers must have ensured some measure of control over the dangerous creature, but his presence still sent shivers up more than one spine.

But familiarity eventually won out, particularly after one day's rehearsal. Christine had decided that she would probably remember that rehearsal forever. Staging directions were being tossed out for the very first scene of the opera, a scene that had yet been avoided for the very reason of the material of the song that ended the scene. Apparently Erik singing about death and destruction to all who would oppose him was a scene that they had wanted to leave until after the cast had become somewhat familiar with his presence. Erik had, unsurprisingly to Christine, already mastered the song. Unfortunately the chorus girls, half as yet un-costumed in the dress of the bandit band, were not so far along in the memorization of their lines.

Erik's voice, commanding and passionate as it was, undoubtedly furthered the stuttering of every chorus girl, excepting perhaps Meg. It wasn't even halfway through the song that Erik stopped singing, his eyes flashing dangerously with fury (likely at what he was perceiving as incompetence). Christine, standing across the stage caught sight of his expression and wondered briefly if she should warn the chorus girls to duck and cover. She found herself holding her breath as Erik turned very slowly to face the girls. And promptly found her jaw dropping open when he very softly muttered, "These lyrics are senseless." He walked slowly between the girls, gently grabbing them by the arm and dragging them to new positions.

"Monsieur Durant!" The stage director cried, "What are you doing?"

"Fixing." Erik replied, a look of concentration on his face. Christine watched in shock as Erik murmured directions to each and every girl on stage, their expression shifting from horror and astonishment to the firm look of concentration they each took on when Madame Giry gave them orders. "They can't sing when they are focusing more on not leaping into one another."

Of course, Christine mused, this memory was second to the first rehearsal for _I Masnadieri._ Andre and Firmin had taken responsibility for passing out the assigned roles to the cast. They had first explained how the main role, that of Carlo, the leader of the bandits, would be played by Erik Durant, the sensational new member of the cast. Their second announcement had been her casting as Amalia, the love interest of Carlo. Christine had nibbled her lip nervously, casting a glance in the direction of Raoul, who stood not so far away, a deep frown marring his handsome features. He made no comment, however, and Christine was slightly shaken when a shrieking voice interrupted from the other direction.

"I should play that part!" Carlotta shrieked. "I am the diva! The lead role should rightfully belong to me!"

Firmin had merely glanced at Carlotta. "You have yet to read the script." He stated.

"I have read the first part." She replied indignantly.

"But not the last, evidently." Firmin deadpanned. "In which Carlo thrusts a dagger into Amalia's breast." Carlotta had frozen to the spot, her eyes glazing over as she directed her gaze again to the shadowy figure of Erik. Her eyes remained glued to his dark form as Firmin continued. "Knowing Erik's feelings, we were not sure you would feel entirely secure in that scene, not knowing whether the dagger would be a stage dagger or not, after all."

Christine hadn't been able to suppress her grin at the dangerous twinkle in Erik's eyes at Firmin's words. Theatrically he dragged a hand lazily across his throat, knowing that Carlotta's eyes were still glued to him, the realization of his actual identity seeping slowly into her self-absorbed brain cells. "The part is her's." Carlotta had murmured sharply. "I want no part of this."

It was only a matter of days before Carlotta had stomped out of the opera theatre, her entourage surrounding her. "I refuse to work with that demon!" She had cried to an empty hall. "You can have me or can have him!" Her departure was quiet and sulky, and no one was seen to attempt to stop her.

* * *

"Christine." A voice interrupted her reverie. Since Erik had begun attending rehearsals she had truly taken over the role of diva, and she found herself looking forward to rehearsals as she never had before. Only the stage director seemed unimpressed with Erik's suggestions, and the entire cast seemed to work together better since he had started making them.

"Christine." The voice insisted. "I believe you have some place to be?"

Christine looked up at Madame Giry, a quizzical look upon her face. "Your lesson with Erik?" She prompted, her look one of bemused tolerance. "The one you have been looking forward to for two weeks now?"

Christine's eyes widened. "Of course!" She gasped, rising to her feet in a rush and sprinting from the room.

An hour later found her standing centre stage, pouring her heart and soul into the words of her solos, _Lo sguardo avea degli angeli_ and _Carlo vive?_ Erik paced around her, correcting her posture and repositioning her chin with feather-light touches of his hands. Between pieces Christine found herself smiling. These were things that they could never cover in their lessons before, when Erik had been no more than a disembodied voice.

"Happy?" Erik asked her suddenly. His voice soft and low, unlike the demanding tones he was using to critique her previously. Christine found her eyes captured by his, her breath catching in her throat for a moment. For she was happy, happier even than she had been since rehearsals had resumed, happier than she had been in a long time.

"Yes." She breathed finally, tearing her eyes away from his. "I'm truly happy that we can have our lessons again." Of course that wasn't all there was. If it was, the sensation of his touch wouldn't affect her so, his gaze wouldn't be sending a shiver down her spine, and there would be no guilt in her voice. Guilt for wanting to be here, with Erik, rather than anywhere with Raoul.

A smile flitted across Erik's face. "I don't believe your fiancé shares your enthusiasm." He murmured, his gaze drifting behind Christine.

Christine turned around slowly, finding herself facing an obviously upset Raoul, who was rapidly striding towards her. "What are you doing?" He hissed. "Why are you here, with him?" He glared at Erik, a hand already placed possessively upon Christine's arm.

Christine stared at her fiancé in shock. "Raoul," she began uncertainly, "Erik is my teacher; he always has been. This is just a lesson." She glanced at Erik for a brief second, watching his eyes darken and turn from her. Somewhere inside her she felt her heart sink, this wasn't just a lesson at all, and her denial of its true importance was merely sending Erik back into his hard, cold shell.

She turned her gaze back to Raoul, and felt a hot flame of anger flare up inside her. She wrenched her arm away from him. Suddenly any thoughts of conciliatory behaviour were gone from her mind. She had worked too hard to get Erik's tutelage back. She had spent far too many restless nights mourning the loss of his presence and friendship, and puzzling over whatever other feelings might be lurking in her heart. "And even if it weren't," she suddenly exploded, the eyes of both Raoul and Erik suddenly wide and focused solely upon her, "What business of it is your's?"

Raoul stared at her for a long moment. "I surely think it's the business of a man to interrupt when another man is busy pawing his fiancé."

"Pawing!" Christine exclaimed. "He was correcting my posture!" Her voice raising an octave, she felt a sudden surge of power. She was the diva in this theatre, and damned if she was going to let anyone get in the way of what she wanted. For once in her life she was determined to get things her way. "Whether you like it or not," she cried, "Erik is my teacher, and my equal, and my love interest on stage." Her eyes were flashing, and Raoul took a step back from her. "I'm an opera singer. This is my life, and this is how I like it to be."

Raoul stared at her in shock for a long moment. "But," he stuttered, "I can give you a better life."

"This _is_ my better life!" Christine cried, suddenly growing aware of other eyes upon her. At least she was already on stage, she supposed. "This is who I am, and what I am." She paused, catching her breath. In a softer voice she added, "You can take me or leave me."

Raoul walked away without a word, casting bewildered glances back at Christine every second or so.

"That was interesting." Erik said finally, drawing Christine's gaze back to his own. His eyes sparkled with amusement.

"I suppose music isn't all I've learned from you." Christine admitted softly, a sheepish smile crossing her face.

* * *

The lesson continued for another hour, after a drink of water to soothe Christine's throat after her outburst. It was no wonder Carlotta's voice was so sharp and shrieking, Christine thought; all the yelling and screaming certainly could not help it.

She followed Erik off the stage, both quiet. There was no need for words to pass between them for them to both appreciate the company of the other. Christine stepped into the hallway. "I suppose I will be seeing you tomorrow in rehearsal?" She said with a smile.

"Of course." Erik replied. "And perhaps another lesson in two day's time?"

Christine nodded eagerly. Already she felt more confident about her role in the new opera. She could only imagine what future consistent lessons would do for her. She began to step past Erik, headed to her private dressing room.

"Do you really like me playing your love interest on stage?" Erik's voice suddenly murmured huskily into her ear. Christine glanced up at him for a moment, giving only the tiniest nod in reply. Erik nodded back, a satisfied smirk upon his lips. Christine took hurried steps down the hall in response, suddenly certain that the deep blush that coloured her cheeks had given away far more than the tiny nod had.


	6. Conflicting Scales

_**And Should I Turn Away…**_

Disclaimer: I do not own Phantom of the Opera or any of the characters, songs, etc. associated with it. I am merely a penniless writer captivated by a story.

_**Chapter 6: Conflicting Scales**_

"_Do you really like me playing your love interest on stage?" Erik's voice suddenly murmured huskily into her ear. Christine glanced up at him for a moment, giving only the tiniest nod in reply. Erik nodded back, a satisfied smirk upon his lips. Christine took hurried steps down the hall in response, suddenly certain that the deep blush that coloured her cheeks had given away far more than the tiny nod had. _

It was the opening night of I Masnadieri. The opera house was as full as Christine had ever seen it, and while there was the usual chatter and noise of an audience prior to a performance, there was also an air of expectance. "They are all here for you." A rich voice murmured in her ear. Christine pulled away from the red velvet curtain she was peering around, retreating into the wings of the stage.

"Erik." She replied softly, even before she turned around. "You know that isn't true at all." A smile flitted briefly across her lips. "There have been rumours in the streets of Paris that the handsome and talented new male lead is none other than the opera ghost." She paused, observing the tension increase in the lines of his neck, and the corners of his mouth. "They are here to see you, monsieur." She replied, somewhat startled at the coyness in her tone. It was rather unlike her. "You are such a sensation you are eclipsing the diva."

She felt the beginnings of a smirk creep across her lightly painted lips as she brushed past him, the hem of her dress brushing over his shoes. She could almost picture the tension slowly ease out of his features, and the surprise at her boldness. The slightly pleased look in his eyes, a glimmer of something that may just have been hope. She'd become familiar with all these things over the past two weeks. Their private lessons were held without fail, and lasted as long as her voice could without straining it. And throughout the course of them, she'd become terribly aware of the faint electric current that ran between herself and her teacher.

Her feelings were confused, blurred by events beyond her control and emotions she had no real names for. All she knew was that the moments she spent with Erik were becoming easier and more enjoyable, and those spent with Raoul had acquired the bitter taste of guilt. It was becoming evident that she was truly living a double life, and if she were forced to choose between the two… well, she could hardly give up the stage now, could she?

But a soft voice, in the dark corners of her mind always amended that statement. It was Erik she couldn't bear to give up.

* * *

The entire room seemed to sigh as Erik's voice rose and fell with such passion during the opening scene. Christine hung back behind the curtains, waiting. She didn't enter the opera until the third scene. Until then she was free to listen. She let her eyelids drift closed, at first seeing the music, then instead imagining Erik's movements upon the stage. He commanded all the attention in a room, and she was certain from the hushed stillness of the crowd that this held even in a room the size of an opera house.

"He is something, isn't he?" Meg's soft voice whispered near her shoulder. "You know, I finally got my mother to tell me what she knows of his story." Meg smiled conspiratorially at Christine as she grudgingly opened her eyes and turned to face her friend. "She's been in on it all along, you know." Christine's eyes went wide. "Do you know…"

"No." Christine murmured harshly. She cleared her throat at Meg's incredulous stare. "You know I can't abid gossip, dearest Meg." She added, softening the blow of that first syllable. "Honestly," she said softly, turning again to face the stage, "I'd rather hear it straight from him, if he means for me to know at all."

Meg was silent for a moment. "You've fallen for him, haven't you?"

Christine found herself turning from Erik's voice yet again, her frustration rising. "What do you mean by that?"

"You have feelings for him." Meg replied, her eyes wide and dark and serious. "I mean, you don't even want to stop listening to him sing."

Christine shook her head hastily. "I'm enjoying the music." She sputtered, a growing sense of alarm rising up within her.

"There's no point pretending with me, Christine." Meg replied, her voice warm. "Other people might not notice, but I've known you since we were little girls. The way you look at him… any fear you once had for him has turned into something else long ago."

"Admiration." Christine prompted. "And respect. And even friendship."

Meg shook her head, her blonde locks bobbing merrily. "Love, Christine. You can't pretend with me!" She giggled. "And who could blame you? With a voice like that?" She gazed dreamily into the distance. "And the way he moves." She sighed dramatically. "And whatever is behind that mask, it cannot be so bad that the rest of him doesn't more than make up for it." Her eyes sparkled mischievously.

Christine could feel the blush rising up into her cheeks. "I don't know what you're talking about." She squeaked. "And what are you doing, saying things like that anyway?"

Meg smiled teasingly, "Oh, don't you see Christine? Now you're jealous that you have to share him with the rest of us." Her voice was slightly taunting. "You know all of us dancers have at least a little bit of a crush. I actually heard overheard Julianne saying that if he wasn't so obviously caught up with you, she would…"

"Not another word, Meg." Christine cried softly. "Not another word. I don't want to hear it." She looked up miserably at Meg. "I'm engaged, remember? A handsome viscount?" Unconsciously she twisted her hands into the folds of her costume dress. "He's sitting up there in the audience in his own private box, waiting for the opera season to end so he can sweep me off into the sunset to some awfully decadent estate where I'll be mistress of a corps of servants." She shook her head, her eyes betraying anguish. "So no, I will hear no more on the topic of Erik. He is my friend and my tutor, nothing more. He simply can't be."

With that said, Christine had nothing else to do but sweep away from Meg, who only stared after her, silent and still. Christine chose to ignore her friend's reaction. Meg was wrong anyway, her feelings were not misplaced. Her heart belonged only to Raoul, just as she had promised.

* * *

She didn't look up to his box once during the performance. Not once. It wasn't a conscious choice, but how could she when she was singing the words of _T'abbraccio, o Carlo_ and _Lassù risplendere_? Singing from her very soul how her love would last beyond even this lifetime, the words building in intensity in their duet with Erik's voice. No matter that few people in the audience could understand the words, the way they were singing, moving, _acting_, portrayed the idea.

Which was of course what good actors did.

Christine pushed the thoughts out of her mind, intent on focusing just upon the performance. She put her heart and soul into the music, pouring every emotion into her voice. She blatantly ignored Meg's knowing smile as they moved into the final scene.

She stilled as Erik sang the final song, her blood fiery in her veins as he sang of despair and of a tortured existence. Wasn't it fitting? She thought dimly, as he declared himself to be a demon on stage. From her position just behind him she could see his shoulders sag, his voice yearning for forgiveness, and the line between reality and opera was momentarily blurred. Her breath caught in her throat as her feet moved the few steps to fall before his feet. She swallowed hard, letting the rehearsed lines fall from her lips in a choked sob. _"Angel or demon! I will not leave you!"_

The words echoed through the opera house, and Christine shivered impulsively. Her eyes pressed tightly shut, she drew a ragged breath. These weren't just lines for them, were they? Every scene, every word, every song was an expression of something else. Above her, Christine could hear Erik's sudden sharp intake of breath. The last moments of the opera moved on around them, but Christine could only feel the weight of those words. Angel or demon.

The opera ended with Carlo plunging a dagger into Amalia's breast as she begged for death rather than a life without Carlo at her side. Christine said the words without opening her eyes, afraid of seeing Erik's dark eyes boring into her own, afraid of what the feelings stirring inside her could mean. She could feel Erik's hands about her waist, hear him cry that he would sacrifice an angel, and felt the stage dagger make contact with her chest. She crumpled at the impact, even as the fake blade collapsed into the handle. She heard the curtains fall. And Erik didn't let her go.

She opened her eyes hesitantly, finding, just as she had expected, Erik's eyes staring down into her own. Slowly he pulled her back into a standing position, never once letting their gaze slip. He leaned in, gently brushing a stray lock of hair from her face. "I don't understand it, personally." He whispered softly, "How he could sacrifice Amalia." He pulled away, staring her straight in the eyes, his lips curved every so slightly into a smile. "I would have moved heaven and earth for Amalia, let alone murdered a pack of bandits to keep her by me." Christine could only stare at him, feeling the deeper meaning beneath his words, as she breathed raggedly, emotionally-drained already.


	7. Up The Tempo

_**And Should I Turn Away…**_

Disclaimer: I do not own Phantom of the Opera or any of the characters, songs, etc. associated with it. I am merely a penniless writer captivated by a story.

_**Chapter 7: Up The Tempo**_

_She opened her eyes hesitantly, finding, just as she had expected, Erik's eyes staring down into her own. Slowly he pulled her back into a standing position, never once letting their gaze slip. He leaned in, gently brushing a stray lock of hair from her face. "I don't understand it, personally." He whispered softly, "How he could sacrifice Amalia." He pulled away, staring her straight in the eyes, his lips curved every so slightly into a smile. "I would have moved heaven and earth for Amalia, let alone murdered a pack of bandits to keep her by me." Christine could only stare at him, feeling the deeper meaning beneath his words, as she breathed raggedy, emotionally-drained already._

Every night was the same now: a breathtaking performance, a few soft-spoken words as Erik held her for a few fragile moments after the curtain fell, and then the strange swirl of emotions that threatened to swallow her whole. She had canceled her plans with Raoul again this evening, claiming exhaustion. It wasn't that far from the truth really, every performance left her feeling drained. _Angel or demon_. _I will not leave you._ The words haunted her.

She lay now on her bed, her face buried into her soft pillow. The tender gaze Erik had held with her earlier that evening sprang unbidden into her mind. He had looked tired, she thought dimly. His eyes were bright though, as if whatever was keeping him from sleep was freeing something inside of him. She turned over on the bed, leaning back against her folded arms. Now that she thought about it, Andre and Firmin had been talking earlier about the next opera. All hushed tones and exaggerated gestures, she had dismissed it as another one of their quirks. But the next opera, the season's closing performance, was to be another of Erik's compositions. Which perhaps meant that his tired eyes and his reduced presence at rehearsals were due to… a new opera?

Christine sat up, stretching her tense muscles. There was only a week or so left of I Masnadieri, and she was eager for new music to learn, new songs to sing. And everything else aside, the thought of another opera by Erik was both thrilling and intriguing. His music could affect anyone, and having been trained by him for so many years, she felt just that much more in tune with it. She slid from her bed and paced the floor, willing her suddenly restless body into sleepiness.

A sudden knock sounded at the door. "Hello?" She called out uncertainly. It wasn't actually that late; certainly a good number of the stagehands and dancers would still be up, much to Madame Giry's chagrin.

"Christine?" Raoul's voice called out. "Are you awake?"

Christine frowned for a moment, if she had been, he would most certainly have woken her up, wouldn't he? Before she could reply her door swung open.

"Christine!" He cried, a wide smile on his face, though Christine could see the sight creases by his lips, revealing his tension, and perhaps frustration.

"Raoul," She said softly, feigning a smile. "What are you doing here so late?" Nonchalantly she tugged on the side of her nightdress before settling her arms across her chest. Raoul had never seen her in her nightclothes before, of that she was certain, and somehow the situation made her less than comfortable. Which was silly, she thought briefly, for how many times had Erik seen her in nothing but her nightdress or the flimsy under layers of her less than conservative costumes?

"I had to see you." He said softly, his smile meting away at her posture. "I'm sorry for barging in," he said suddenly, "I should have waited outside. It was ungentlemanly…"

Christine winced. When had their conversations become so awkward? Surely it all stemmed from that outburst upon the stage, but one fight shouldn't have caused so much distress between the two of them. She sighed audibly, it wasn't the single fight; it was the space that had developed in between them. The void of unspoken thoughts and feelings that was forcing them apart.

Raoul cleared his throat. Guiltily, Christine snapped her attention back to her fiancé. "What has happened to us, Christine?" He murmured softly, taking a step towards her, a hand outstretched. Christine felt frozen, she should be stepping into his embrace; instead it was all she could do to keep herself from taking a step backwards. She felt his hand settle lightly against her cheek, brushing back a few hairs as softly as a feather. She felt a tear slip down her cheek.

"Shhh," Raoul murmured softly, using similarly soft motions to wipe the tear away. "It will all be alright. It's only a few more weeks and then the season will be over. After that you can relax. We'll go away to the country, and you can get some fresh air, rather than be cooped up inside this stuffy opera house. We'll have our wedding to plan." It was all Christine could do, not to burst into tears at this. "And," Raoul added slowly, "You may invite anyone you like."

Christine sniffled softly at that, knowing just how hard it must have been for him to concede this to her, knowing that her friends were dancers and singers in an opera house. Their presence at their wedding would be scandalous at best, and here he was, willing to accept all that just make her happy. She smiled weakly, "You are too good, Raoul." She replied, biting her lip softly to keep the tears at bay. She sniffled, "Truly I am lucky to have you." He beamed at that. She stepped slowly out of his embrace, one she had rested in only stiffly. "I'm afraid I really am tired though," she said softly, "After all of this though, I promise you, we will have plenty of time together." She swallowed hard, willing the lump in her throat to disappear. "In the sunshine and the country air."

* * *

He had no sooner closed the door than she had sunken slowly onto the edge of her bed. The tears ran silently down her face, as she struggled to suppress the sobs rising in her chest. Things were not right between her and Raoul. There was no spark between them, only this acting out of childhood dreams that had long ago lost their shine. When this season was over… when this season was over she would be signing up for another. And when that year was finished, there would be another to follow it. If not here in Paris, than perhaps in Germany, or Italy, or god only knew. Maybe Sweden, where she had not been home to since she had left it as a young child. But there would always be the stage. There would always be the music. To leave it behind, well that was something she simply wasn't strong enough to do.

"So you're just waiting for the season to run out." The words hit her with a steely edge. Christine closed her eyes, rapidly losing control of the sobs contained in her chest. She had not heard this tone in his voice for weeks, months even. And here again, when all her world was collapsing, he was accusing her of… of what exactly? The things she _should _have been feeing?

"Erik." She whispered hoarsely, unable to turn around to face him, where he stood on the other side of her bed.

There was a long silence, interrupted only by sniffles and small choked sounds she struggled to contain. "Christine?" He said finally, softly, all anger drained from his voice. Which really was the final straw.

The sobs erupted from her mouth without any consideration. Christine wrapped a hand around her mouth, trying to still them, stifle them; anything but this embarrassment to add to her pain. She wasn't quite prepared for the hand that settled on her shoulder, warm and strong. The bed shifted as Erik sat down beside her, a tentative arm reaching around her in an awkward move to reassure. Without a second thought Christine let herself melt into his arms, one hand bunching into his shirt as sobs wracked her slender frame.

"Shhh," he whispered. "What's wrong, Christine?" He tightened his embrace around her, his cloak spreading around her, shutting out the rest of the world.

"I…" Christine sputtered, tears running down her pale face. "I don't…" She collapsed into sobs again, burying her face into his chest. His hand was warm on her shoulder, his embrace strong and real.

"You don't what?" He said softly, pressing for an answer.

"I don't love him." She murmured into his shirt. "I can't leave here." The tears still ran down her face, even as the sobs subsided. "Not after all these years. Not after all the training and the dreaming and the wishing." Her voice became even softer, barely above a breath, "Not without you."

She could tell he had heard. The sudden stillness that had taken over his hands. The pause in his breath, no matter how short it had been. She couldn't lift her head now. She could only wait, breath, let the tears still. "I came here for a reason, actually." His voice was smooth, melodic. "I finished the opera."

Christine lifted her head despite herself. "You did?" She breathed, her tear-stained eyes peering openly into his. "What's it called?"

The smile on Erik's lips was bittersweet at best, "The Phantom of the Opera."


	8. Crescendo

_**And Should I Turn Away…**_

Disclaimer: I do not own Phantom of the Opera or any of the characters, songs, etc. associated with it. I am merely a penniless writer captivated by a story.

_**Chapter 8: Crescendo  
**_

_She could tell he had heard. The sudden stillness that had taken over his hands. The pause in his breath, no matter how short it had been. She couldn't lift her head now. She could only wait, breath, let the tears still. "I came here for a reason, actually." His voice was smooth, melodic. "I finished the opera."_

_Christine lifted her head despite herself. "You did?" She breathed. "What's it called?"_

_The smile on Erik's lips was bittersweet at best, "The Phantom of the Opera."_

Christine followed him trustingly down the dark tunnels that made up the secret insides of the opera house. The pale orange light of the candle he held flickered against the walls, illuminating a tiny circle within the darkness. It lit the unmasked side of his face in a dazzling pattern of light and shadow as he turned to give her a slight smile, his hand tightening around hers as he led her onwards. He really was handsome, Christine thought sadly, remembering the brief glimpse she'd had of the other half. If she hadn't seen it for herself, she would never have believed how bad it was.

"Here," he said softly, his voice rich and assured, as he pushed open a wooden door. Christine followed him into the room, recognizing one of the nicer practice rooms. She turned to where the door had been, surprised to see only an uninterrupted wall behind her, so flawlessly was it concealed. Erik nodded towards the piano that sat in the middle of the room, never letting go of her hand as he guided her to sit beside him at the piano bench.

Christine felt her voice hitch slightly in her throat. There, on the stand, was the opera, its title written in a grand flowing hand across the top sheet. She reached out a single hand; the other still unconsciously wrapped within Erik's grasp, and ran it gently down the side of the page. She stared at it for a moment, taking in the texture of the paper and the many corrections on the page. "The original?" She breathed softly.

"The one and only." Erik confirmed, his breath warm against her ear. He reached out and pulled both of her hands into his own, forcing her to angle her body to face him. "I wanted it to be yours." He murmured softly. "No matter where you choose to go from here."

For a moment Christine didn't realize she'd stopped breathing. Stealing a breath, she smiled softy, her eyes brimming with tears she'd had no intention of shedding. "Mine?" She whispered softly. She blinked back the moisture; hadn't she'd cried enough tonight?

"Yours." He replied, raising her hands to his lips, where he brushed the softest kiss across them.

Christine couldn't help the shiver that ran up her spine. She turned her eyes back to the opera, afraid to hold his intense gaze. "Weren't you worried someone would walk in and see it?" She asked quietly.

"The door to the hall is locked," he replied in a low tone. "The only way in right now is through the tunnels."

"Oh," Christine breathed, her heart fluttering at that thought. "So," she swallowed, "The Phantom of the Opera?"

Erik just smiled tenderly. "It's time that you know me, Christine."

His fingers flew across the keyboard as he played; his voice by turns harsh and velvety as he sang the lines. Christine's eyes were wide as she absorbed the words, taking in the stage directions and accepting, bit by bit, exactly what horrors Erik's young life had contained. She breathed deeply as he paused his playing, ending the first act. She lifted her gaze to his shadowed eyes, "Erik." She whispered. "Did they really? And…" She couldn't say the words. She couldn't imagine having parents who didn't want their child. She couldn't imagine having one's earliest memories being of pain and anguish and shame. It was too terrible.

His gaze fell to the piano keyboard. "It's all true." He muttered, his voice ragged. "There was never anyone who loved me. Madame Giry, when she was little but a ballet rat herself, felt pity for me, but there was never anything more than that."

Christine shifted on the piano seat, feeling more than a little awkward. It was little wonder then, how he had behaved towards her. He had no idea how to love someone, having never experienced it. She lifted a tentative hand to the music, "Tell me it gets a little better," She whispered. She paused, turning her head to meet Erik's face directly, "Not that the music isn't beautiful!" She exclaimed. "It's just… heartbreaking. You… the way you sing..." Christine halted her words, shocked by the yearning in her voice. She turned her gaze back to the paper.

She could sense the smile in his words, "It gets better. A source of light appears in the darkness." He paused, "I haven't yet decided who should play you as a little girl."

Christine felt a slight bush rising up into her cheeks. "There's a young girl," she replied softly, "Natalie. She's an orphan…" She didn't need to say _just like me_, that was something Erik understood. "I heard her sing once," she continued, "I think she certainly has potential."

She could feel Erik's nod beside her. "For the moment though," he murmured into her ear, "Humour me, and sing all your parts."

Christine smiled gently and found her smile widening into one of delight as early in the first scene she found herself singing one of her favourite songs from her childhood. "I didn't realize you had written this yourself," she said with pleasure, her guard falling as Erik's music rolled through her childhood at the opera house. It was with a sudden enlightenment that Christine realized that this opera was just as much about her as Erik. She turned her gaze sharply to study Erik as he played. Just how much of his life was defined by what they had been to each other? She reflected for a moment, just how much of _hers_ was defined by their relationship?

Erik paused, entering the second scene with a bright flash of enjoyment shining in his eyes. "I think this song will also be familiar to you. Meg will, of course, have to play herself."

Christine's eyes flashed along the page, recognition in her eyes. "You heard this?" She sighed in amazement. She lifted her chin and began to sing:

_Father once spoke of an angel  
I used to dream he'd appear  
Now as I sing ,I can sense him  
And I know he's here  
Here in this room he calls me softly  
somewhere inside… hiding  
Somehow I know he's always with me  
he - the unseen genius..._

_Angel of Music!  
Guide and guardian!  
Grant to me your glory!  
Angel of Music!  
Hide no longer!  
Secret and strange angel_

She smiled, a little sadly. It all seemed so long ago now. But here was Erik, already swirling away into the next part. Christine lifted the page and bit her tongue. Her voice began singing at just the right moment, almost entirely independent of her thoughts, as she lost herself in memories of that night…

_In sleep he sang to me  
In dreams he came  
That voice which calls to me  
And speaks my name  
And do I dream again?  
For now I find  
The phantom of the opera is there,  
Inside my mind _

Erik's voice rose up to meet with hers, and though he was less her master than he had been then, chills still ran through Christine's body. She was unsure, however, how much of it was in fear of his thrall, and how much was the attraction between them. Like a moth to a flame she was irrevocably drawn towards him. This duet, any duet between the two of them, felt right. In her blood, her bones, her heart, and her soul.

_Sing once again with me  
Our strange duet  
My power over you  
Grows stronger yet  
And though you turn from me  
to glance behind  
The phantom of the opera is there  
Inside your mind  
_

The duet ended without any accompaniment from the piano, and for a moment Erik's hands rested still on the piano_. _In an instant though, his fingers were on the keys of the board and he was away again, his voice taking on a distinctively seductive tone.

_Night-time sharpens, heightens each sensation . . .  
Darkness stirs and wakes imagination . . .  
Silently the senses abandon their defences . . ._**  
**_Close your eyes and surrender to your darkest dreams!__**  
**_

Christine sighed softly, suddenly conscious of Erik's closeness. He had such a presence, it drew her in. And though some part of her thought to fight against this, another was rising up in her, just as it had that night; a part of her that found itself wishing that his graceful fingers were touching her, rather than the piano's keys. It was with a certain pleasure that she read the stage directions that stood him at her side. She knew only too well from Don Juan exactly what his presence by her side would mean.

_Let your mind start a journey through a strange new world!  
Leave all thoughts of the world you knew before!  
Let your soul take you where you long to be!  
Only then can you belong to me…  
Floating, falling, sweet intoxication!  
Touch me, trust me savour each sensation!  
Let the dream begin, let your darker side give in  
to the power of the music that I write – _

_the power of the music of the night…_

She found herself leaning into his voice. An act that found her very nearly pressed against his side. She took a deep breath, the thought that she should move back to her previous position fitting through her mind. A more enticing thought was relishing in the brush of their sleeves, and the smooth feel of his trouser leg rubbing ever so slightly against her bare lower leg. It was only now that she realized that she was still dressed in no more than the nightgown she had worn earlier that evening. Wasn't it odd, she thought fleetingly, how it now felt like almost too much? A blush rose up in her cheeks at such a scandalous thought. She stole a glance at Erik; it was truly terrible for her to wonder how he looked underneath the rest of his clothes, wasn't it? She shook her head for a moment, it was the music affecting her so, she was certain.

"Still reading the stage directions?" Erik interrupted her thoughts suddenly, his voice amused.

Christine stuttered for a moment, redirecting her thoughts and gaze to the page before them. Her eyes widened even as her mouth dropped. "You want me to… you want me to remove your mask _on stage?_"

Erik nodded solemnly. "It is about time the world saw me as I am." He smiled at her shocked expression. "They won't believe it for a moment, anyway. They will think its stage paint, nothing more."

Christine could only nod dumbly; suddenly certain that this opera would raise even more eyebrows than Erik's last one.


	9. End of a Season

_**And Should I Turn Away…**_

Disclaimer: I do not own Phantom of the Opera or any of the characters, songs, etc. associated with it. I am merely a penniless writer captivated by a story.

_**Chapter 9: End of a Season **_

_Christine stuttered for a moment, redirecting her thoughts and gaze to the page before them. Her eyes widened even as her mouth dropped. "You want me to… you want me to remove your mask on stage?" _

_Erik nodded solemnly. "It is about time the world saw me as I am." He smiled at her shocked expression. "They won't believe it for a moment, anyway. They will think its stage paint, nothing more." _

_Christine could only nod dumbly; suddenly certain that this opera would raise even more eyebrows than Erik's last one._

Christine steadied herself on stage, a surprisingly difficult feat after nearly a full scene of Erik caressing her and the words of his soon-to-be-famous _Music of the Night_. Worse, she knew what came next. She spun around to face Erik, her back to the audience (a packed house, as anticipated), his hands resting on her slender waist. With trembling hands she reached up and gently, oh so gently, removed the porcelain mask. It was easy enough to fall to the stage in a staged faint; the shocked gasp from the crowd below her was enough to make her sink to her knees.

She looked up at Erik as the curtain closed on the second act. They had practiced this scene twice before tonight. He had requested it of her in hushed tones during one of their practices. It was, of course, a scene they had rehearsed alone. Raoul seemed to have simply accepted that this was Erik's great work, and that Christine, as his greatest and only student, would be central to it. It had been a grudging acceptance, but then again, Christine hadn't given him much of a chance to protest. This last week she had avoided him at all costs, escaping to locked practice rooms until the small hours of the nights, and out of bed and on stage long before Raoul turned up.

The first time they had practiced this scene, Christine had visibly shook as she removed the mask, frightened equally of the sight that waited her and the stormy reaction she had received once before. Erik had merely stood calmly before her; accepting her gaze as it ran across his face. The oddest thing was that it hadn't been as bad as she had first perceived. Certainly it was a stark contrast to the smooth skin and handsome features on the other side, but it wasn't nearly as horrifying as she remembered it being. A small breath escaping her lips, she had reached out a tentative hand, the tips of her fingers ghosting along the contorted skin. "Does it hurt?" She had whispered, looking up into his eyes.

"Not at all." He had replied, taking a sudden breath as if he had been holding it before. His eyes had carried a look of pure astonishment.

Now, looking up from where she knelt before him, Christine caught hold of the hand he extended down to her. "See?" He murmured into her ear as he held her close to him for a moment, "That wasn't so bad."

Christine smiled weakly. "I still don't like the next act."

* * *

In the final act, the audience was introduced to a new character, a foppish young man who attempted to woo Christine away from the opera and her phantom. It was a thinly-veiled tongue-in-cheek portrayal of Raoul, and Christine could feel his fury from the stage. She sighed, preparing herself for the final scene, in which the phantom would attempt to win her back, of course to no avail. For Erik didn't write happy endings.

Christine bit her lower lip gently. She didn't like the ending. Simply because it seemed so blind, so limited. How could she, for while the girl in the opera was named Emma, it was her really, give up the stage so easily? When she had achieved all she had ever dreamed of? She watched Erik fit his mask back on deftly. If she ended this opera the way he had written it, how could she justify to Raoul that this story, so evidently hers and Erik's, ended differently than her own life would?

For she had become firm in her decision not to leave the opera after this season. She wanted to remain the diva. She wanted to perform in all of Erik's future operas. And she simply couldn't bear the thought of anyone else singing their duets. For they would always be their duets – he had written them solely for her.

Christine swallowed the hard lump in her throat and straightened her shoulders. She wouldn't change a word of it, but no one in the world could control her movements upon the stage.

* * *

In the brightness of the stage lighting, Christine stood between two men, on her right stood the caricature of Raoul and on her left stood Erik. The Compte de Montignac strutted about the stage, a vision of salvation. Erik moved with a catlike grace, darkness to contrast the light. For a brief moment, Christine peered out at the audience, begging them for a solution to her dilemma, an expression that in all honesty fit her role well.

_No more talk of darkness,  
Forget these wide-eyed fears  
I'm here, nothing can harm you  
my words will warm and calm you  
Let me be your freedom,  
let daylight dry your tears.  
I'm here with you, beside you,  
to guard you and to guide you... _

The Compte sang his lines beautifully. Better than Raoul had the first time he had sung those words to Christine on the rooftop. They were calming words, but they were spoken as if to a child. While the Christine who had been sung those words had been desperate for a knight in shining armour, the woman she was now demanded that she choose her own path. She lifted her voice and sang brightly, her yearning echoing in the words.

_Say you love me every waking moment,  
turn my head with talk of summertime...  
Say you need me with you now and always...  
Promise me that all you say is true  
that's all I ask of you_

She turned her back to Erik, just as the stage directions called for. She now faced the false Compte, the mimicry of Raoul, and all his gentle promises. They seemed so meaningless now, a dull promise of sunlight and empty manors, bereft of music and mystery.

_Let me be your shelter  
let me be your light  
You're safe, No one will find you  
your fears are far behind you..._

The fake Compte was grinning. He knew the opera ended with the girl in his arms, the girl being the fiancé of actual nobility. He looked rather like the cat that got the canary, a cocky, self-assured look about him that actually reminded Christine uncomfortably of Raoul. She could sense Raoul above her, hating this opera, but grinning his way through it on the expectation that the moment it was over, he would sweep her away.

Behind her, Erik was beginning his lines, his voice smooth as silk and so full of passion, loss, and need, it made her heart ache.

_Say you'll share with me_

_One love, one lifetime_

_Keep me, save me, from my solitude_

_Say you'll want me with you here, beside you_

_Anywhere you go let me go too_

Vaguely Christine wondered if anyone would remember those same words from Don Juan. It was recycled lyrics, but then again, it was what she did next that would make or break this opera, and perhaps, her life. Spinning on her heel, Christine faced Erik and took a deep breath. Even from here she could see the shock in his eyes.

_Then say you'll share with me  
one love, one lifetime  
let me lead you from your solitude  
Say you need me with you here, beside you...  
anywhere you go, let me go too_

With each line she drew closer to Erik. There was no going back now, for all Erik's genius, he had mistimed the point of no return by several months. It had taken seeing him as a man, involved in life, to bring her to this point. He stood still, his lips slightly parted. For once she seemed to be the one with all the words. Behind her she could hear the fake Compte fidget and cough slightly. She was certain his confusion simply added to his acting of the part.

_Say you'll share with me one love, one lifetime...  
say the word and I will follow you...  
Share each day with me,  
each night, each morning...  
Say you love me..._

Her voice filled the opera house with a desperate passion, rising and falling with the music. Her voice carried a hundred emotions, and she sent them spiraling out into the audience on the caress of music, just as she had been born to do. And it was then, in that moment, as she seized control of her own destiny, that she realized just why it was she couldn't love Raoul.

She had already given her heart away to an angel, a demon, a man, who had conducted both her life and his own to create something greater than either would have been on its own. She paused just in front of Erik, her hands reaching towards his own, just as he found his voice.

_I gave you all my music  
made your song take wing  
and now you have come back  
to love me and to guide me  
_

His eyes held a brightness that took her breath away. His hands wrapped around her own, just as they had that night he had given her the original copy of this opera. A smile filled her lips as she thought how many more corrections would have to be made to it after tonight. She moistened her lips to sing the final verse, noticing the hunger in his eyes, and feeling a similar hunger rise within her. Ever since that night, each brush of their hands, every touch, whether choreographed or not, had been filled with an electricity, a current of desire that she hadn't been able to deny. She had stretched her practices with him, had found excuses to stay longer with him, had found fault with their music just to stay in his presence a little longer.

_Say you'll share with me one love, one lifetime  
say the word and I will follow you  
Share each day with me,  
each night, each morning..._

Their voices rang out through the opera hall, complimenting each other perfectly. The notes lifted and swelled, soared like birds above the hall. Yet there was no doubt in anyone's mind that the two people on stage, standing with hands clasped together, were singing for no one but themselves.

_Love me - that's all I ask of you  
Anywhere you go let me go too  
Love me - that's all I ask of you..._

Their voices died away upon the fading notes of the orchestra. Christine ran her tongue across her suddenly dry lips, watching Erik's eyes dip for a brief moment to follow the movement. There was the briefest instant in which their gaze remained locked, and then his arms were around her, pulling her tight against him, his lips crashing down onto her own. Christine melted against his body, relishing in his lean frame so close to her own, and the feel of his lips against hers. There was no denying it, this was where she belonged, in Erik's arms, in front of an audience.

Christine was only dimly aware of the thunder clap of applause that followed. As they parted, she let her eyes wander out to the audience. Her eyes widened, "Erik," she breathed. The entire room was on their feet, a standing ovation filled with catcalls and cries of "Bravo." She looked back to Erik, who still had his eyes on the audience, wide with surprise and accomplishment. There was something in his smile that she found she couldn't resist, as she lifted a hand to his face and guided his lips back to her own.


	10. Cadenza

_**And Should I Turn Away…**_

Disclaimer: I do not own Phantom of the Opera or any of the characters, songs, etc. associated with it. I am merely a penniless writer captivated by a story.

_I feel almost sad posting this chapter - the last chapter. I want to thank everyone who has reviewed or favourited this story. Your support kept it going! I also apologize in some ways for this chapter. I know a lot of people were really looking forward to the scene directly following the last chapter, but this is how I've always envisioned the story ending, so I figured I had better stick with the plan. Thank you again for reading!_

_**Chapter 10: Cadenza**_

_Christine was only dimly aware of the thunder clap of applause that followed. As they parted, she let her eyes wander out to the audience. Her eyes widened, "Erik," she breathed. The entire room was on their feet, a standing ovation filled with catcalls and cries of "Bravo." She looked back to Erik, who still had his eyes on the audience, wide with surprise and accomplishment. There was something in his smile that she found she couldn't resist, as she lifted a hand to his face and guided his lips back to her own. _

The carriage rumbled to a stop in front of the palace and Christine peered out of the window, an expression of wide-eyed amusement playing across her features. She turned to face Erik, who looked far less impressed by their royal summons. She smiled at the look of frustration across his face. "It's only for a few days," she said teasingly, a smile across her face.

"I should be working on my next opera." He replied, his fingers twitching as if composing on their own, without need for paper or piano.

Christine shook her head fondly, rearranging the fur shawl she wore around her shoulders. One would think that after five operas, Erik would be content to take a few days away from composing. Producing an opera every year, while also performing and training singers was no easy task, after all. As the footman opened the carriage door, she stepped out lightly, her dress swishing along the ground, but not quite touching it. "Have I mentioned how much I love this dress?" She exclaimed as Erik stepped out of the carriage behind her.

"Only a dozen times, mon cherie," He replied, fondness evident in his luxurious voice. "I'll have to design you a dozen more when we get home."

Christine smiled at the serving maid who rushed to her side, eager to aid her in any way possible. "Madame Durant!" She exclaimed, a blush rising into her cheeks, "I so adored you in _The Phantom of the Opera_, and you were simply sublime in…"

"That's quite alright," Christine replied softly, as a butler behind them treated Erik to similar words of praise. She wasn't quite certain when she and Erik had become famous halfway across France, but she wasn't entirely surprised either. It seemed now that every time a new opera was performed, people lined up to see it the moment it was announced that they would be playing the leads. And this was whether it was one of Erik's compositions, or an old favourite.

Though, that wasn't all of it, Christine mused, turning her head slightly to watch Erik speak to the butler. He was going off on one of his tangents about the complexities of mixing harmonics (a topic she only vaguely understood), and the butler was hopelessly nodding his head, evidently too much in awe to admit he didn't understand a word of Erik's speech. Their popularity must have something to do with who they were. Shortly after _The Phantom of the Opera_ had played out its full several week run that second season she sang as the diva, Erik had finally begun to emerge from the opera house, walking about in the daylight, upon crowded streets.

Certainly people pointed. But it was in awed tones. Here was Erik Durant, the phantom of the opera turned sensation. And there on his arm, was the lovely Miss Daae, his love interest, and not only onstage. They had believed the mask was a publicity stunt, for by then Erik was well known not only as the phantom from his opera, but also for his many masked roles. And considering the opera house's new backer (for Raoul could never stand to lose), it seemed likely to everyone that Erik was in fact paid to wear his masks in public, as an advertising ploy.

The Lord of Chevi was an Englishman who had married into wealthy French nobility. It had struck him early on that the French could never truly trust an Englishman, so he set about making himself into a truly unique personality, and when he saw the first production of _The Phantom of the Opera_, he had rushed from his balcony seat, eager to make a donation. Upon learning that that same evening, Viscount Raoul (and his money) had abandoned the theatre, he had seized upon the opportunity to become the new provider. His presence was one that sent the whole cast into fits of giggles, except Erik, of course, who instead set to work educating the Lord on the finer points of music.

"Monsieur and Madame Durant," The court herald cried out as she and Erik entered the room, side by side, the maid and the butler having been dismissed with a smile from them and a curt nod from the herald. Christine rested a hand upon Erik's arm as they entered the throne room of the French King and Queen.

"Welcome," The French King said grandly.

"See?" His wife murmured lowly, her tone triumphant, "I told you he would come wearing the mask!"

Christine smiled up at her husband – it seemed strange that she had ever not wanted to be at his side now. He had proposed midway through the second season, under a starry sky in the Parc Floral of Bois de Vincennes. He had admitted that ever since she had re-written the ending to his opera, he had been certain that he could never write another without her at his side. Surrounded by the heady scent of night blooming flowers he had gazed deeply into her eyes and asked the words he had finally come to see as a question rather than a demand. Christine had smiled, tears glittering in her eyes, "_I was afraid you were never going to ask._"

"We wish for you to write us an opera." The King continued speaking, though Christine was miles away, still remembering the day she and Erik were married.

It had been vastly different from anything either of them might have imagined in years before. Meg had been her maid of honour, her eyes bright with the triumph of having been right all along, and Madame Giry had spent the entire ceremony dabbing at tears, astonished at how things had turned out for her two orphans. "Imagine," she had exclaimed, "Erik in a church, let alone a church wedding!" When Christine had floated down the aisle in the wedding dress Erik had designed for her, she had momentarily been afraid Madame Giry would start sobbing right there. But the older woman had far too much pride for that, and simply smiled tearily at her girl, hoping that Meg could find someone who brought her just as much love. Just before the ceremony she had admitted to Christine that if she had ever thought Erik would fall in love with her, she would never have permitted their lessons. Christine had only smiled, "I'm terribly glad you didn't then," she'd said softly, "Because I simply cannot imagine who I would be without him."

"It must be dramatic!" The queen exclaimed.

Christine could sense Erik rolling his eyes. "_Every_ opera I write is dramatic," he replied. Christine straightened slightly, her hand intertwining with Erik's, she could feel the impatience in his voice growing as the French queen prattled on, listing the requirements of her opera. The King could only smile lazily, his eyes imparting a look of "What else can I do?" to the pair standing before him.

"Of course," the King said finally, "You do realize, Monsieur Durant, how improper it is to wear a mask before the King and Queen?" His voice held little threat; it was mostly curiosity from what Christine could tell. "From what I understand, no one has seen your true face." He paused for a moment, raising an eyebrow, "Except perhaps Madame Durant?"

"On the contrary," Erik replied smoothly, "Everyone has and simply chooses to interpret it as what it is not." His words were fluid, but Christine could pick out the tension and the grinding of his jaw. He wasn't one to play games, not even for the sovereign of his country.

The Queen sat up suddenly, "You mean… that horrible disfigurement…" she stared at Erik as if he were a strange insect.

Erik nodded slightly. Both monarchs looked suitably shocked. "But…" the queen said softly, her eyes landing on Christine. "_The Phantom of the Opera_," She whispered, "The whole story is true?"

Christine smiled, her eyes clear and bright, "Every word." She replied, her voice strong and proud. "And when do you wish for your opera to be completed?"

* * *

Back in the opera house, Christine set about unpinning her hair, letting the dark tresses fall from the decorous updo she had worn during their travels. A smile played about her lips as a second reflection joined hers in the mirror. "You're beautiful," Erik murmured into her shoulder as he pressed his lips to her neck. "An angel," He continued to run a line of kisses down the slope of her neck, running his hands in a gentle caress up her sides.

Christine marveled in the sensation of his touch, thrills playing along her spine as his eyes flashed wickedly in his reflection. For a moment she simply enjoyed the feelings he brought out in her. Suddenly, she winced slightly. In a smooth motion she broke his caress and grasped one of his hands, gently pulling it to the swell of her belly. "I'm afraid she's going to be a dancer," She murmured softly, "She has already perfected her high kicks." The broad smile that flowed across Erik's lips was the only reassurance Christine needed, as she melted into his embrace.

_**The End**_


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